I looked at the curious baptismal font, while the sacristan lighted his candle in preparation for the rite. The font is a classic vase, resting on twelve quaint Phoenician-looking lions of green bronze; an inscription states it was a gift to Zosimus. Who was he? A god, as one book says, or the Bishop, or a pagan historian, who criticizes Christian emperors over much? Either way, it was strange to see the ancient vase used as a baptismal font, to witness the casting out of the old Adam from a new-born baby by a cross apoplectic archpriest, who so frightened the infant that it roared horribly as Adam departed. “You are the son of the _custode_?” I said to my guide, a lad perhaps eleven years old. “No, I am the _custode_!” “And your father, what does he do?” “Oh, he is a _custode_ too.” The lady, to whom I had the letter, received me cordially. She lives in an old palace, with large high rooms, and modern furniture. I pleased her by saying how much we admired the dark Syracusan type; I did not see one blonde in Syracuse. “Your women have superb hair,” I said; “they dress it beautifully.” “You noticed that? I have seen women without shoes, whose coiffures were finer than those I saw in Paris. They are extravagant. Imagine! my washerwoman has her hair dressed; she pays a franc and a half a month to a hair-dresser--you should see her; her coiffure is almost as good as mine.” “That would be difficult; your hair is magnificent.” “All my own--see, hardly a white hair, just two or three over the temple. When I was young, it covered me like a cloak, but what can one expect at sixty?” “Sixty--it’s not possible!” “Yes, my _festa_ was a week ago; how old should you have said?” “Less than forty.” It was true, she was the youngest person for her age I ever saw. A tall shy man now came in followed by a brown lupetto dog. My hostess introduced me. “An American lady--she brings a letter from the Contessa Q.--she would be welcome without it--we know what the Americani are doing, Signora. I myself saw the good warm clothes the American Capitano landed here. O, the Prefetto was glad of those garments and those medicines--what was the name of the ship, Arturo?” “There were several; thou referest to the Celtico.” “What a kind man was that captain--he spoke French like a Frenchman and the young _biondino_ who kept the lists; _tanto simpatico!_” It was pleasant to hear of the “Celtic’s” good work in this very foreign house, of Captain Huse and of Paymaster Jordan ycleped il _biondino_! “Did I tell thee,” said Arturo, addressing my hostess--he was too shy to speak directly to me--“that the sailors of the American fleet made up a purse of sixteen thousand francs for the families of our mariners smitten by the disaster? It is a fact of piety and comradeship not to be forgotten.” “Thou sayest well. Hast thou not a glass of wine, a bit of cake to offer?”